Glint (The Plated Prisoner 2)

The amount of wealth in Highbell Castle is enough to make my head spin, and that was even before Midas decided he wanted everything to be turned gold.

“You alright, Precious?”

At Midas’s query, I glance over, a smile already turning up my lips. “Yes,” I reply. “It looks good like this, don’t you think?”

We both stand alone in the room, and it’s still strange to think that this is where we live now. I haven’t gotten used to it. I also haven’t gotten used to us, either. Midas used to wear cheaply made trousers and scuffed boots. Now, he’s always in silk tunics and perfectly tailored pants. The strangest of all is when a crown rests on his copper-blond head.

Even so, it fits him. It’s like he was made for it—all of this finery doesn’t leave him feeling awkward or make him seem out of place. If anything, he’s flourished in Highbell despite having to take up the mantle of king so quickly.

I’m proud of him. So proud of the way he hasn’t faltered, hasn’t backed down. For a man who was raised on a farm with no family left, he’s taken on the role of king with ease.

His eyes, the color reminding me of the pod on a carob tree, look over the room with meticulous assessment.

I’ve been all over the castle with him today, parts of it transforming before our eyes. A windowsill here, a rug there, teacups and chair cushions, wall sconces and doorknobs.

Night fell a few minutes ago, taking away the last of the day’s watery light. Servants have already come in to feed the fireplace, the flames a hungry, wakeful beast that growls and spits, casting the room in its orange glow.

Dozens of candles adorn the dining table, place settings waiting perfectly arranged over the newly shimmering surface. I can still see the grains of the wood, but the polished timber is now remade—gold, to match the rug and curtains and dishes.

“It does look good,” Midas hums, his eyes catching on the spots that haven’t been turned yet—the white marble floors, the paneled walls, the ceiling, and the backs of the chairs. “But it will look even better when it’s all golden in here,” he finishes with a smile in my direction. “You must be hungry. Let’s eat.”

With a hand on my back, he leads me toward the table, two servants already there with our chairs pulled out. Before I’ve even finished sitting down, my ears prickle with the noise of a door opening, of heels clicking against the floor.

I freeze, unable to help the servant to push in my seat. I shoot Midas a wide-eyed look, but he’s looking at the doorway where she just walked in. His wife, his queen.

I hear her skirts swish against the floor as she comes closer. She rounds the table, sitting at Midas’s right, directly across from me.

The dining room is filled with sudden tension, and Queen Malina knows it. A gentle nudge behind me unsticks my hesitation, and I murmur a thanks to the servant as they finish pushing in my chair.

“Wife, you’ve joined me for dinner,” Midas says, the cool blanket of his tone covering up whatever other emotions he might be feeling.

The queen never dines with him for supper unless they have guests. They share breakfast or sometimes tea, but not dinner.

Dinner is supposed to be mine.

The servants come up, placing a plate and bowl in front of each of us, wine poured in our glasses. If they’ve picked up on the discomfort, they don’t let it show.

“I was out all afternoon in the city, and I’ve only just gotten back. I skipped lunch, so I thought I’d dine with you tonight,” Malina says with unruffled ease.

Her snow-white hair is parted on the side, front strands swept o

ver loosely, all of it gathered into a knot at the nape of her neck. She’s wearing a gold dress, just like me, but hers is far more elaborate, the skirts full, the bodice bedecked with lace and frills and layers.

Compared to her, I feel like my satin slip of a dress is barely a step above a nightgown. The only garnishments are the gold rings at my shoulders that hold the fabric in place.

“I’m glad to have your company,” Midas replies.

My gaze burrows into the bowl of soup in front of me, wishing that I could be anywhere but here. I’m angry that she’s here taking away my one meal with him. It’s all I get anymore, and sometimes, I don’t even get that.

I can feel the queen’s eyes on my downturned head, my scalp tingling with cold, like her wintry blue gaze carries the chill of winter itself.

At the sound of Midas starting to eat, I lift my hand woodenly, forcing myself to do the same. I can’t let myself look at him, since that would only enrage her. The last thing I want to do is gain attention. I don’t dare slurp or drop my spoon as I eat. In fact, I try not to make any noise at all.

All three of us eat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, throats swallowing, broth sipped. I’m sure it’s delicious—everything here always is—but I can’t taste it around the bitterness I feel.

Malina sits straight and proud across from me, no hair or thread out of place, her very essence regal and overwhelming. Looking at her, there’s no doubt she’s royal.

“Hmm,” she hums, stirring her soup before lifting her gaze up to me. “It seems your gilded orphan girl has learned better table manners since last time.”